


The Stories left Behind

by theinvalidedsoldier



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Alcoholism, Angst, Child Abuse, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Insecure John, M/M, Scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-22
Updated: 2018-04-27
Packaged: 2019-04-26 12:01:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14401734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theinvalidedsoldier/pseuds/theinvalidedsoldier
Summary: Nobody really knows how John Watson got those scars on his body.





	1. Curiousty Killed the Cat

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock, or any of the characters, this is a work of fiction.
> 
> This fic contains graphic depictions of violence and past child abuse.

In an ever stretching alley on a seemingly average night, there was the echo of overexerted panting and the pitter patter of leather shoes on wet cobblestones. Three pairs of determined feet ran, swerving in and out of architecturally redundant, nightmare inducing pathways with twists and turns for days. A lanky drug cartel leader sprinted for the drugs he was worth, a bead of sweat falling down his brow.

“That way, go that way,” Sherlock said to his stocky blogger, a manic grin on his face. There was a fork in the alley, for whatever reason, two separate paths. “Take two lefts and a right, it’ll loop back around.” John obediently followed the rushed instruction. He sprinted as fast as his legs could take him, as long legs would definitely be an advantage for their petty criminal. John could feel his legs thumping, the adrenalin pumping through his body.

Two lefts and a right later, John and Sherlock had cornered a delirious looking man; lanky, greying hair, the typical junkie archetype. “Come any closer an’ I’ll cut ya,” He growled, brandishing a small knife with pathetic persistence. The leaky pipes behind them were mocking the situation, the situation that was quite frankly, pretty funny. The criminal, who went by _‘The Man’_ on the streets, actually outed himself to Sherlock accidentally. That’s not to say that Sherlock hadn’t figured it out before The Man’s perfectly hilarious slip-up as to where exactly he was on the night of a brutal quadruple stabbing. John watched in only slightly sick amusement as the junkie fumbled over his words upon realising his mistake, to full on legging it in any direction.

A wry half-chuckle escaped Sherlock, it wasn’t even remotely a pleasant sound. “Hostility is futile at this point, Andrews. Surely you know that?” Sherlock made no attempt to move towards him, but made his authority known all the same. His battle stance, and supercilious tone would’ve honestly been enough to send anyone to their knees. And that is completely meant as a double entendre.

“Be rational about this, mate. You either run, and get caught, or turn yourself in and do time,” John encouraged, hands out, eyes trusting. Sherlock, who was beside him, scoffed. “Either way, you’re going to get caught. So just calm down. Put down the knife.” John’s coaxing fell upon deaf ears. The Man, more commonly now known as Andrews swung the knife erratically in every and any direction. “I’m fucking warnin’ ya, get out of my way.” Sherlock immediately dodged the swing in his direction, whereas John went in for the plunger and went hurdling into Andrews’ lumbar region.

They both went toppling downwards, but not before John could feel the distinct nick of the knife across his chest, and a warmth soaking into his shirt.  _Fucking brilliant._ John’s shorter, but more attuned and muscular body landed on top of Andrews, the both of them grunting as they hit the floor. A fickle, but short fight for dominance occurred until Sherlock pulled out John’s gun, and a click of the safety being removed was distinctly heard. John had started to put the safety on after every case when he had once walked in on Sherlock examining the residual gun powder around the muzzle. _‘If I had scared him, the prick would be dead,’_ John had thought to himself. It was rather handy that he had done in this situation, as the warning was noticed by both of the wrestlers, both of their heads perked up immediately.

  “I’m warning you, and I’ll only say this once, as I’m not a patient man. You are to get up, turn around, put your hands on your head and face the wall,” Sherlock drawled, more than a hint of menace in his voice. A look at his face confirmed John’s hypothesis, Sherlock was absolutely livid. For a self-proclaimed sociopath that holds the utmost contempt over even the word  _sentiment_ , his fury over a good for nothing druggie harming his ‘colleague’ was really quite telling. 

  Andrews got off John alarmingly quick, shaking as he raised his hands and turned around to face the unforgiving grey wall that blocked him from escaping from the two angry partners in crime. Partners against crime, really, but it technically means the same thing. Sherlock’s eyes were going a mile a minute as he scanned John, evaluating if he was hurt. “Are you alright?” He kept the gun pointed at Andrews, but was by John’s side in a heartbeat.

  John smiled gingerly, the smiling turning to a slight wince as he moved to emphasise his point. “Grand, yeah. Just a scratch.” He gestured downwards, but upon moving, his cardigan moved to display the spot of blood blooming across his shirt. “Bollocks,” John whispered, attempting to dab at the stain. Sherlock was back over at Andrews, looming behind him, a considerable height difference even considering that Andrews was definitely not short. His eyes had darkened considerably, he looked positively predatory. 

  “You are incredibly, incredibly lucky that you haven’t hurt him badly,” Sherlock growled into his ear, everyone conscious of the gun pressed at the nape of Andrews’ neck. “Or else, I guarantee to you, you wouldn’t leave this spot alive.” And with that, Sherlock threw John the gun, gestured towards the trembling man and whipped out his phone. John tuned out roughly after Sherlock’s unconventional introduction. “We’ve got him, the blocked off alley way outside of the rental flats. Do hurry up.” 

  They were both in the back of an ambulance in the matter of five minutes, Andrews firmly locked up in the back of a surprisingly neglected police car. John had tried to assure that the damage wasn’t sufficient enough to warrant stitches, and spent another five trying to prove the legitimacy of his PhD that warranted him to actually say that. Sherlock stepped in when it started to get just a tad heated. “We have a more than competent medical kit at home, I assure you that he is in good hands,” When the medic once again tried to interject, Sherlock’s already fleeting patience caved in on itself. “Must you be so tediously incessant, he is fine.” And with that, John was dragged off - gently, that’s a surprise - by his elbow.

  For once, John wasn’t annoyed at the outburst, opting for a chuckle on his behalf. “Thanks,” He said, walking in unison with Sherlock, who announced his departure with a whip of his Belstaff. Sherlock sniffed, head high. “I am taking a look at that when we get home.” 

  It was only in the cab when John realised with horror what exactly this entailed. His mind flashed back to all of those looks mingled with pity and revulsion from past girlfriends and even rugby mates upon seeing the marks that littered his body. Some thought he had self-harmed, one particularly dumb tart thought he had been run over, but most were bang on correct, that someone close to him had done it. If humiliation wasn’t bad enough, emasculation finished if off nicely. John remembered the day that Richard McArthur had caught a glimpse of his badly beaten back and asked very very loudly (and rhetorically), “What type of poof can’t defend themselves?”. John had gone out of his way from that day on to limit any potential opportunities that could’ve arisen that would’ve involved showing his body to anyone.

  “I can hear you overthinking, you know. It’s rather irritating. Do stop.” John noticed that he had been staring rather unperturbed at the back of the front seat of the cab, how long Sherlock had been staring at him, he did not know. “Sorry,” John mumbled, sighing. Sherlock grumbled something incoherent in response. That was that I suppose. 

  It wasn’t long until they were back to Baker Street, Sherlock opened the door, John scurried in behind, dreading the conversation he knew was going to happen. They had barely got in the door, Sherlock’s scarf and coat hung up when Sherlock was jumping right onto the topic. “Shirt off, sit down, I’ll be back in a moment,” He gestured towards the coffee table, and started to make off towards the bathroom, no doubt to get the medical kit. A cold sliver of fear sunk down into John’s stomach like a rock, and all post-case euphoria dissipated. The air was tense as John violently leapt forward, “No!”

  Sherlock swiveled around, eyebrow raised. Concerned? Maybe a tad. Amused? No doubt. Confused? Absolutely. “Problem?” He enquired, speaking to John as if he were a little child. John became almost immediately conscious of every single scar he had on his body in a matter of a millisecond, as if he hadn’t been already. ‘ _Must deflect the focus on me.’_ John shuffled under the intense glare being sent his way.

  “Erm, right yeah, I’m actually fine,” He tried to say, Sherlock didn’t look like he was at all listening. “I’ll just go have a shower, wash it out, it’s honestly not that bad.” He moved to the kitchen, Sherlock followed. “I think it best I see it for myself, John.” Once again with the insufferable imperiousness. Sherlock’s gaze was all too knowing, it made him feel quite ill. John made for the door, Sherlock blocked him.

  “I’m a Doctor, Sherlock, for the love of God. I think I’d know if the wound was fatal.” His expasperation wasn’t fake, not at all. Sherlock didn’t look convinced, “You don’t want me to see your body,” He announced, a familiar patronising phrase rang through John’s head, from the one true consulting detective himself.  _“Perfectly sound analysis but I was hoping you’d go deeper.”_

John neglected to reply, which only egged Sherlock on further. “Bodily insecurities are not uncommon for a man of your age or caliber, you’re not the soldier you were a few years ago John, but you’re hardly morbidly obese.” John couldn’t figure out if that was meant to be even remotely mollifying. “Yeah, thanks for that,” Was the sarcastic reply. “I know that I’m not bloody fat, Sherlock. I’m just not particularly in the mood for my flatmate to be analyzing my chest. It’s fine, I’m fine.” He attempted to move past the persistent twat, who was a surprisingly effective barrier. 

  “Is it that you don’t want me to see your shoulder? Because if it’s any consolation you can cover that up if you so desire.” He was getting warmer, it wouldn’t be long until he was correctly deducing that John was in fact littered with scars that left different stories behind, each as traumatic as the last. John snapped, shouting out a rushed, “Jesus, would you fucking leave it? I’m fine.” Before promptly rushing to the door.

  John successfully barricaded past Sherlock this time, changing his route from the shower to his bedroom, he had disinfectant wipes upstairs, those would do. Anything would be preferable to staying away from Sherlock’s tantalizing gaze. At that point in time, he wished for a lock on his door, as virtually nothing was stopping Sherlock from following suit. As John stripped off his jumper, much to his own peril, he realized that the nick was quite a lot worse than he had originally anticipated.

  “Brilliant,” He muttered to himself, grabbing the wipes from his drawer and wiping congealed blood from the deep cut. It stung like a bitch, John hissed in a breath through his teeth, and endured the pain as much as he could.

  As he got ready for bed, pyjamas and all, he drifted off to sleep to the conclusion that Sherlock was not going to let what happened go, however small anyone else would deem it to be, Sherlock was Sherlock and that was that. He trusted Sherlock more than ever, maybe even too much, as he knew that whatever hard façade he put up, it was all fake. Much like the John put himself out to be perceived, friendly and polite, but detached and unassuming. He knew that he would have to face the music tomorrow, and that was part of him that John wasn’t all too keen to reveal.


	2. Let the Secrets Unfold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Having an immensely fucked up childhood wasn’t exactly something that John brandished proudly, on quite the contrary actually. But it was most decidedly a part of him that he couldn’t hope to change, it was just the opening up that was difficult.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took a tad longer than most to write, and a lot of thought went into it. 
> 
> Enjoy!

  John was six when his father, Martin, had hit him for the first time. He had dropped his bowl of pasta on the ground, and the sound of the cheap ceramic bowl purchased with disarray in Ikea, smashing against the floor was the only sound resonating throughout the room. Martin had been in a foul mood already, this hadn’t mollified him much, unsurprisingly. The first time hadn’t been particularly brutal, but it was easily the scariest moment of John’s ever so eventful childhood. Martin had been mid-sentence, mid-word even, he was giving out about something no doubt, when he positively froze. Everyone froze, Harry, his Mother, seemingly even the rivulets of water spouting from the faucet, his father had turned to him, face pink. “You’re not fucking serious, Johnny,” He had said. John had begun to detest that nickname more than anything, as he could always distinctly remember the trickle of fear that would make its way down his back when he had said that name in  _that_ tone.

  “When I tell you that I’m not in the mood for this bollocks, I’m not joking.” Martin had advanced on him slowly, eyes wild, spittle flying everywhere. He was pissed drunk. John had tried to open his little trembling mouth to apologize, it wasn’t his fault, Harry had kicked him, but there was no reasoning with Dad when he had been set off. Even John’s mother was positively catatonic, stricken with terror at the sight of the man she once loved going off  _again._ It had just been a clip across the back of the head, but it was as much a shock to John as it was to everyone. Harry regularly received them from Dad, it was common knowledge that they didn’t get on, but John ‘ _Johnny Boy_ ’ Watson had always been a Daddy’s boy. 

  “Pick them up,” He had slurred into his ear, referring to the broken shards of the bowl on the marble floor. Mum had tried to interject at that point, “Marty, maybe we should-“ It was her turn to be ridiculed by the man of the house. “Sit down, Kathy.” Kathy sat down, good little obedient Kathy. John’s tiny shaking hands and tiny shaking knees got down onto the cold floor, and picked up the jagged pieces of ceramic sorrow from the floor.

  Both Harry and his Dad apologized that night, Harry’s eyes filled with tears, Dad’s breath smelling like whiskey.

-

  The second time had kind of been John’s fault, or maybe it hadn’t been at all, he was just used to hearing that, drilled into his mind like clockwork.  _Your fault._ It had also been the first proper hit, proper and intentional punishment from his dearest father.

  They had been going on a road trip, the first trip they had managed to get the whole family together for since the untimely death of Martin’s mother. This succeeded in pushing his father near enough to breaking point, his mother being his only true tether to sobriety. Not only had John lost an adoring grandmother, but a chunk more of his father  was gone too. Harry was eleven, John was eight, they were both in the back of the car, Dad wasn’t drunk. Everything seemed like it was running as smoothly as silk, too smoothly. Then of course, something happened.

  Harry pinched his thigh, a little too his hard for his immediate liking, so John did what any pained eight year old would do; scream. John turned to Harry and let a bellow of shock into her face, in hindsight, if the following events hadn’t taken place directly after, the whole debacle would’ve been pretty funny. But what happened next wasn’t funny. John’s screech had terrified his mother, who incidentally happened to be driving. All it took was one glimpse backwards from her to send the car swerving, several panicked expletives, rushed jerks of the wheel, and a near crash into a tree, they were alright. Unfortunately, Dad had taken the opportunity, inspired by the situation if you will, to make sure that that would change. “Pull over, now,” He commanded, John’s already shaking mother obliged.

  It was at the side of the road when John felt his heart fall into his stomach, a feeling that he started to experience a lot more often than he would’ve liked. It had been years since Dad had laid a finger on him, but the threat of one always seemed to linger in the air whenever John stepped a foot out of line, ever since he dropped that bowl of pasta those two years ago. It was almost as if to let John know that violence wasn’t off the table now, to get him to behave. The road was completely deserted, as they had been driving through the tranquil countryside. The tranquil countryside whose tranquility would most certainly be perturbed by the sound of Martin getting out of the car slowly, deliberately, walking up to John’s side of the car, opening the door and  _smack._ The entire right side of John’s face was on fire, and he could feel his heartbeat through every part of his body.

  Mostly everything past then had been a blur, the car ride up to the small retreat Kathy had booked two weeks in advance for a hefty deposit, was tense and melancholy. Not the ideal mood for a family day out. There were beers stocked up in the mini fridges when they got there, so all rationality from that point on was irrefutably gone. John had spent the entire three days there thinking of the incident, about how Dad had been all too willing to set his hands on him. And the lingering and plaguing thought of if he would do it again.

-

  The third time John’s father had hit him, or badly hurt him rather, had been the first time it had left a mark that stayed with him throughout his life. Third time’s the charm and all that shite. 

  John was twelve, and his Dad’s sobriety had become more and more of a fleeting. It became the new norm in the Watson household for Martin, the man of the house, to walk in smelling like stale ale and cigarette smoke. It was a rarity to see him smile, and even more rare for it to be a genuine non-inebriated smile. But the household powered on, Kathy practically becoming a single mother, was the best she could be for two parents. Whenever Martin would come in in a particularly foul mood, she would send Harry and John to their rooms to take the butt end of his abuse. Harry would read stories to John until he fell asleep, his friends at school would’ve laughed at him if they saw his fifteen year old sister reading him to sleep, but it was undoubtedly the time in John’s life where his relationship with Harry had flourished.

  Non-reciprocal screaming could be heard downstairs, with each hoarse shout that echoed, the floors seemed to shake. It shattered John in every way, but it wasn’t until he heard the all to familiar crack of a steady hand - to steady for a drunk - across a haggard, gaunt cheek. Superhero John, who couldn’t even protect himself from his father raced downstairs, and came into contact with a scene that would never leave him. His father had his mother’s two wrists enclosed tightly in a beefy fist, tears were pouring out of her eyes and onto her best blouse, and he was in her face. Still shouting. The minute they noticed his presence, the atmosphere had dropped slightly. 

  “I think it’d be better if you went to bed Johnny Boy, hmm?” He let go of his mother. “Mum and I are just having a little grown-up tiff.” John was statue still on the spot, it felt like his feet had been permanently rooted to the spot,  _don’t call me that._ That bubble of terror started to descend over him, he could feel prickles, stabs from thousands of needles in the tips of his fingers and toes. John made a face. “Don’t hurt Mummy,” John had said, trying to muster up any bit of courage still residing in him. “I won’t let you hurt Mummy anymore.” Tears prickled in Kathy’s eyes as she came to the conclusion that this was a futile situation, not worth fighting for. She stepped back, there was nothing to do to divert her husband’s wrath from her only little boy.

  “Excuse me, boy?” The  _boy_ had seemed so much more derogatory than any expletive he ever could’ve used. “Who the fuck do you think you’re talking to?” His face had gone a very unflattering shade of scarlet, eyes had taken on the drunken manic look. Father had started to go on an undisturbed tangent about lack of disrespect, audacity, an incompetent mother, amongst other things. John hadn’t really listened, because my God, he was terrified. It was only Martin continued to advance on John when they all started to pay more attention. 

  “Big man, hmm?” He had kept saying. John had tried to divert his skinny body away from him, skinny meant faster, he twisted to dodge away from his Father’s outstretched palm. “Not such a man big now.” John darted behind his mother, which was no consolation, she didn’t say a thing. She looked like she was about to burst, she looked as if she was about to crack in half, and John would have to watch as she would spill out onto the floor in front of him. His father continued to prowl, positively prowl towards him, John’s breathing became shallower as he realised that he really hadn’t helped the situation at all. He had only succeeded in infuriating his father even further.

  As Martin reached his quivering son, he caught his stick thin arm in one hand. No one said a word. Not one word. “How fucking dare you, the cheek, the audacity. You are never to speak to me like that again,” His words were slow and deliberate, venom laced with every syllable. “Do I make myself clear?” John couldn’t speak, burning hot shame licked at his face. Identifiably, this was the mistake that pushed his Dad over the edge. All it took was one cold hard shove, and John was sent sprawling back into the fire place. The fire hadn’t been lit, that was the only fortunate thing about the situation. What was quite decidedly unfortunate was how sharp the edge of their fireplace was. It had torn through the back of his shirt, and had slashed a huge gash across his upper back.

  In retrospect, it was the most tame of the scars that were to come, but the shock, the shame, the heartlessness of the situation was not lost on twelve-year old John.

-

  It wouldn’t have taken a Sherlock Holmes to figure out what was the last straw for his spiralling, alcoholic father. The death of his mother would’ve done it, which it did. John’s Dad had blamed himself, and he wouldn’t exactly have been wrong. It was his hurtful words that had driven her into the car to get away from the constant abuse, and his hurtful words that had quite literally caused her to crash into the back of a fourteen wheeler on the road to salvation.

  From there, the stench of misery from the Watson family was practically contagious, Harry had lost all of her friends, John had to pick up a part-time job because his Dad spent all of their money on drink, and their Dad was getting worse as each soul-sucking day went by.

  John could recount every story from every scar left by his father. 

  The first one after his Mum died being with a scorching hot fire stoker. This one was from when John’s rugby team hadn’t won the all-finals championship. This was on the back of his left thigh.

  A long skinny stretch of a scar, which always became slightly bumpy in the cold weather, was from when John had taken the overtly huge bottle of brandy from his Dad on the anniversary of Mum’s death. He could still perfectly remember the delayed reaction from Martin, slightly swaying on the spot, splotched face, heavy eyelids, the works. Harry had tried to interfere, this got her a backhand to the face. Which was only considerably mild in comparison to the belt to the backside that John got, over and over and over again. Eventually the buckle brutally slashed his skin open.

  Two on his chest from John waking him up at three o’clock in the morning when he dropped a few glasses on the ground.

  One on on his shin from when Dad had intentionally closed he car door directly on his leg. It was a ‘joke’ apparently, John didn’t really know what constituted as funny from then on.

 One at the back of his neck, where Dad had ‘nicked’ him with a pocket-knife after social services had turned up at their door. Apparently someone had reported the marks on his arms, John ‘wasn’t being careful enough’.

  Then came the numerous scars that John had inhabitated from when his Dad had put out cigars of all shapes and sizes out onto his skin. These were by far the hardest to explain to anyone who was willing to listen. They were small and blotchy, the distinct edges of where charred skin had flaked and peeled were still apparent. They were easily John’s least favourite out of the generous display that he had to show. It was always when he drank whiskey, always whiskey. And always when John had done something relatively mild, would he have to endure a cruel and unforgiving father with an equally as cruel and unforgiving sizzling piece of irrationality. These scars were on his forearms and up, it allowed John to wear t-shirts, but only the modest kind. His Dad was clever, if not conniving, and fully-knowing the immensity of the consequences if anyone were to find out what he had been doing to John and Harry. 

  It was at sixteen when John had started to fight back, he too had been pushed to his breaking point. He too had lost Kathy, his idle mother, who meant well but didn’t save them from Dad’s quick fuse. Martin was shouting, again. John couldn’t remember why for the life of him, it was only when Harry had gotten a particularly intense crack to the face did John just _break._ He had jumped in front of her, and had shouted at his Dad. And fuck it, it was the most euphoric feeling in the world. The Watson’s were also renowned for their patience, or lack thereof. And John could be insufferable when he wanted to be, insufferably violent and volatile. John had punched him, right thumb breaking in the process, but he hadn’t noticed.

  From then on, nothing had been the same between the two. Both had some sort of sick respect for each other, knowing that if the moment came, they could both fuck each other up equally as bad.

  Dad had his good days too, like when John actually won a match, or came home with a girl on his arm, or on his lips. John was becoming a real man, or so he had said. Funnily enough, he hadn’t had that type of reaction when Harry came home with _her_ first girl. The irony wasn’t lost on either of them, but the irony didn’t matter when they got a fist to the side of the head. It was a tiptoe dance, where John was wearing shoes of lead. It wasn’t fair, but he wasn’t either. 

  Several more stories, some more horrific than others, are neglected in John’s mind, as some were to painful to recount. Having an immensely fucked up childhood wasn’t exactly something that John brandished proudly, on quite the contrary actually. But it was most decidedly a part of him that he couldn’t hope to change, it was just the opening up that was difficult. More difficult than he ever could’ve imagined. Opening up to Sherlock was going to be hard, yet it was an inevitability all the same. Turning out to be near the exact opposite of how his Dad envisaged him to be would’ve made a fifteen year old Johnny Boy cringe. But it now made him proud, to be living with someone so ridiculous, cynical, non-conforming, brilliant and all of the above. For one of first times in his life, John was happy, and he’d be fucked if anyone were to take that from him again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Johnlock or No for the next (final) chapter?


	3. Showdown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Empathy was not a word in Sherlock Holmes’ vocabulary. But then again, when has John Watson been anything but an exception?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You all wanted it. Prepare for some overtly non-platonic Sherlock and John shit.

  Sherlock hadn’t slept, he wouldn’t lie, John’s outburst had shocked him, only in the slightest. It intrigued him, concerned him even. John had never expressed anything even remotely comparable to bodily insecurities in the year and a half they had lived together, so the insecurity fueled tangent John had gone on just yesterday had been telling. Was it an instance of modesty? John had seen him half, or even completely naked on more than one occasion, surely it wasn’t about something as trivial as that. Maybe it was about trust? Sherlock considered John to be quite a good friend, he’d push the label even further if it were not for the comfort of them both, but there was a definite fondness between them that you wouldn’t find with regular acquaintanceships or regular friendships. So, the idea that John didn’t trust him enough to brandish his battle wounds (quite literally) proudly, hurt him more than he would’ve cared to admit.

  Sentiment was a tricky thing, and most decidedly, something Sherlock was not used to. There had been a look in John’s eyes yesterday night, specifically when, and including the duration afterwards, Sherlock made a comment about taking a look at his wound. It was a flash of something, something that would’ve gone completely unnoticed to the naked eye of anyone else, any clueless outsider. But this was Sherlock Holmes, who intended to divulge any and all attention into figuring out the baffling case that was John Watson. It was a contorted expression, with a look of undeniable panic and reluctance. It was a cause of considerable concern for Sherlock, as he knew John to be a man of - debatable - rationality and stoicism.

  It was almost as though John relished in being an enigma. An infuriating puzzle that Sherlock couldn’t quite figure out. It was rather a sly trick of the mind, also. John put out a façade to the public, and most likely had done all of his life. A façade of approachability and a tendency for affability but it was merely detached politeness. John Watson in himself was a puzzle that would initially leave you temporarily stunted; then you would figure him out, or at least think you had. As soon as you had been certain that you knew him as well as you knew yourself, he would surprise you. He would make you question every aspect of his personality that you thought you had relinquished from him. It was perfectly infuriating.

  A cold tinge was in the air, specifically in the living room, as the heating had turned off in the humidity of London’s sticky summer nights. Sherlock had neglected to wrap up warm, he actually hadn’t moved from his spot draped across the couch for what must’ve been dawning on nine hours at that point. The sun was rising above the busy landscapes of the second city that never sleeps, New York being the first; a monstrosity for noise and a Christmas present for Sherlock. A cesspool of gang violence and aggravated assaults awaited every turn, but John and Sherlock’s story of their venture to the Big Rotten Apple could wait for another day. The birds that always seemed to hoard directly above their window, were chirping. No surprises there. Sherlock had vaguely considered shooting one once, when in a particularly foul mood, John had stopped him. Obviously.

  Sherlock’s phone lay beside him, abandoned in a huff. He grasped it, glancing at the time. 6:08 a.m. John surely would’ve gotten up at that hour, to head out for his sniveling excuse of a job nonetheless. He had never quite understood John’s insistency in keeping the blasted job, when Sherlock had pointed out on numerous occasions that he was a.) far too qualified for its dull nine to five droll (seven to five actually, but anyways) and b.) their ‘on the side consulting’ was more than enough to pay the bills. Obviously, Sherlock did understand why John insisted in working there. It was his overly convoluted way of showing Sherlock that he was capable of embodying the epitome of normality that he so desperately craved to be seen as. Once again, enigma. How a man could be so desperate to go flying like a wailing monkey; at a mentally unstable druggy for his regular fix of dopamine, could be so fixated on how he was perceived in the public was baffling.

  Sherlock’s hands were steepled under his chin as he contemplated, which is what he had been doing for the considerable amount of time on the couch, on how to best approach the situation. By no means was John a sensitive man, but many did truly underestimate his temper. Where Sherlock was reckless, John was surprisingly quick-tempered and impatient. More so than he let on.

  The stiff gait of a tired man was distinctly heard coming down the stairs, Sherlock’s eyes snapped open. Upon inspection, it was clear that John’s sleep had been less than pleasant that night, at least him and John could relate on that. He was dressed, but most certainly not to impress, dawning the hideous cream cardigan that Sherlock had almost ‘accidentally’ burned with his blowtorch. His dirty blonde hair was shaggy, with no attempt of taming it being shown. The sight before Sherlock would’ve been endearing, if it were not for the thick air still residing between the two from their little domestic from just a few hours previous.

  John gave a curt nod in his general direction, his eyes not meeting Sherlock’s. “Morning,” He said, trodding into the kitchen surreptitiously. Rustling could be heard from the cupboards, and the little click of the kettle being turned on was distinctive. Sherlock hopped up, feeling only slightly disoriented. Once his presence became known behind John, he wasted no time getting to the point at hand.

  “John,” Came the drawl of frustration. A sigh tore from John, this would go well. “I’m not in the mood.” Sherlock clenched his jaw, biting back a scatching remark. John seemed perfectly content in completely ignoring the topic, as he continued to make tea without prevail. Every clink of the teaspoon was attention being given to a bloody mug of tea rather than Sherlock, which only furthered the pit of annoyance quelling at the bottom of his stomach.

  “I just want to-“ John raised a quick hand, his lips were clenched into a thin line, anger ascending by the second. “No. No, I am not talking about this.” Sherlock opened his mouth to slip in another word, he was hoping for at least one more syllable. Evidently not. “Not. In. The. Mood.” And with that, John was slamming his dejected mug of tea down onto the countertop, and storming out the door.

  It was almost as if his brain was malfunctioning, hot-wiring. With his circuit temporarily gone offline, Sherlock stood stark still for an outstanding thirty seconds. The resounding silence in the flat after the front door slammed violently was deafening; it wasn’t pleasant. He shut his eyes momentarily, berating himself silently for his predatory approach, no one is going to open up to you if they feel like they’re being interrogated. Though to be fair, expecting anything less from Sherlock was foolish. John’s reluctance to open up proved to be a problem.

-

  John had a migraine. Exhaustion had hit him like a train running on rocket fuel, and it wasn’t even lunch time. It was the same day in day out shit, an odd pained granny would walk in every thirty minutes or so. They were complaining about chronic arthritis in their fingers or hands or legs, or fucking arse cheeks for all he cared, John wasn’t even attempting to listen. He just prescribed them some acetaminophen and sent them off to whatever bingo game they were supposedly all supposedly late for.

  Sherlock. That twisted prick. He couldn’t just let it go? No. Evidently he couldn’t. Could he not come to the grand conclusion that John was in fact thoroughly uncomfortable? Thoroughly self-conscious? It was likely that he did, the sick sod. John had always known that Sherlock’s morals had always been beyond the point of ‘questionable’, instead bordering on ‘legitimately terrifying’ and ‘completely ethically corrupt’. But he did not think that his insensitivity (and blatant ignorance, at times) would extend as far as their friendship went. John had thought, as far as a friendship with Sherlock would go in any sense, that his deep-seated daddy issues, and inferiority complex would go noticed but unquestioned. Clearly it was too much to be expected from the self-proclaimed sociopath, who was seeming to conform more and more to said label by the second.

  John, to be perfectly honest, wasn’t exactly sure what he was so afraid of. Sherlock was not like most, he had definitely proved that in the meagre year and a bit they had been flatmates. Sherlock wasn’t one to bother with common social niceties, if he liked you, he’d tell you, and he’d also be quick to tell you otherwise. Overbearing, rude, supercilious, domineering; all synonyms of each other, but all as equally as valid. He was a handful, he was actually five handfuls, but even the slightest bit of affection from Sherlock Holmes was something to be relished in for eternity. He was an aloof little fucker, quite reminiscent of a fly that John had once caught in a jar when he was little. Always buzzing about, and could never seem to fix his mind onto one thing for any deem-able prolonged period of time.

  Sarah poked her head in the door of John’s office, knocking on the door frame with a perkiness he envied. “Oh, hello! I’m off out for lunch. I’m headed down to the cafe across the street, fancy a bite?” Sarah had always been more than a little bit nervous around John since their short stint at a relationship attempt, but it shocked John at how eager she was to maintain a friendship. She reminded him a lot of Molly, the poor girl, her heart chasing after a man who was as interested in her as John was at the the prospect of getting coffee with Sarah. Of course his head would go back to Sherlock, Jesus Christ. Talk about transfixed. 

  John cleared his throat, “Er, no. I’m alright thanks,” He murmured, not trying all that hard to appease Sarah’s aura of awkwardness. His disinterest and moody exterior fell flat, she relented. “You sure? You seem like you could use a pick me up. You seem a bit off today,” Her words were tentative, but affectionate. Outside of his work and disaster of a personal life with Sherlock, it was always a surprise to come across observant people. When you spent such a limitless amount of time with the world’s one and only consulting detective, you start to believe that they truly are the only person in the world with a pair of eyes. John smiled ruefully, raising his eyebrows in spite. It seemed inappropriate to be giving out about Sherlock in his workplace, but John’ll be damned because with Sherlock being in a domestic with him, John had nobody to rant to.

  “I had a bit of a row with Sherlock this morning, the prick won’t get off my back about something,” John added a colloquial, “You know how he can be.” Sarah did in fact know how Sherlock ‘could be’. _Him_ being the soul reason of their relationship being left to hang by tethers after crashing and burning. True, she didn’t know the true extent of Sherlock’s incessant curiousty and insistence of knowing absolutely everything about ever single fucking person in and out of his life, but she got the general gist. Sarah took a seat in front of John’s desk, her conquest for a badly cooked lunch abandoned. John’s gossip having gathered her interest.

  “Well I mean, is it about something bad?” She inquired, her hand propped underneath her chin. John sighed, resigned to the fact that he was spilling dirty details about his argument with his flat mate to a coworker. They were beginning to sound more and more like a married couple by the minute. “Damn it all to hell,” He sucked in a huff of air angrily, a rage sniff, really. “I told him to drop this one thing, something that I specifically told him to lay off about, and he’s still going on about it. You’d think he’d have better things to worry about.” Sarah looked at him with her eyebrows raised, she looked a little bit too knowing for John’s liking. John was counting down the seconds until she came to some sort of grand conclusion that he was most definitely not going to like. 

_5, 4, 3, 2, 1.._

  ”Maybe it’s because he cares about you.” There it was, it was honestly inevitable. He had it coming, he knew it was coming. John let out a derisive bark of laughter, “Right, yeah. Sherlock Holmes caring about me. That’s a good one.” He impulsively licked his bottom lip, he could sense that the conversation was going to veer into some dangerous territory rather quickly. Sarah cocked her head disapprovingly, looking more than a little bit annoyed. She scoffed.

  “You can’t honestly expect me to believe that you don’t see the way he positively throws himself at you.” It was obvious that her frustration had been pent up for a while, “Come on John, when we were together he looked like he was going to commit mass genocide. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he locked you away in a closet just to keep you away from me.” Her tone turned from mocking to deathly serious in a millisecond. The insinuation of a more than platonic relationship between the duo was a regular occurrence in their lives. Sherlock seemed surprisingly unphased by it, and never made even the slightest attempt to correct anyone who assumed that they were together. John however, was fighting the urge to throttle Sarah.

  “That’s just him,” He argued, attempting to reason. No avail. “It’s always been him.” That didn’t seem to do much to help his case. Sarah looked smug. “No, John. That’s the way he is with you,” She deadpanned. John’s brows furrowed, she did have a point. Sherlock had never shown the slightest bit of possessiveness or concern for anyone that they had come across. Ever. Sherlock’s disdain for relationships of any kind in general became known rather quickly into their friendship, on their first day of meeting each other actually.

  Maybe, just maybe, Sherlock’s belligerence wasn’t simply to know something about John he hadn’t previously known, but to genuinely find out if he was okay. Neither of them were good with expressing their feelings, if the lines were blurred in any way, it wouldn’t have surprised him in the slightest. 

  Seeming to have noticed that her tangent had sent John into a bit of a crisis, she abandoned the post of an abrasive therapist quickly. She got to her feet, “I’ll just leave you with that then, I’ll see you later.” She was nearly completely out the door when she lent some last few words of unsolicited advice. “Oh, and John? Do us all a favour and just tell him, for the love of God.” And with, she was gone. John rubbed a hand over his face, he was stunned. He had contemplated the nature of his relationship with the mad man countless times, never once coming to a proper conclusion. He was infuriating, rude, insensitive, and made John’s life infinitely more difficult. But did he really want it any other way? It was mind-boggling that he was only coming to the realization now, not just about Sherlock’s affection for him, but for other things in a more romantic value. Jesus Christ, that man was going to kill him. John wouldn’t have been surprised if he had dropped dead then and there from abrupt heart palpitations.

  He loved him. It shouldn’t have been such a jaw dropping, heart skipping conclusion, yet it absolutely was. John knew that their relationship was quite unconventional, and that their boundaries that would usually apply in other relationships had long been surpassed. It was almost cruel how long he had been dancing around the man child, but late was better than never. He pulled out his desk drawer and scrawled down a quick  message on a sticky note, he hoped it was at least a little bit coherent. John pulled on his jacket, and grabbed his keys and wallet, shoving them into his pocket with a purpose. A man on a mission. He stuck the post-it to Sarah’s desk. This was the height of John’s unprofessionalism.

   _Gone to tell him. I’ll work overtime for the next two weeks. Sorry._

_\- JW_

He left the surgery with his heart in his mouth. It was positively comical how he had gone into work fuming, and coming out early to proclaim his undying love for the infuriating mop-headed bastard. At the back of John’s mind, he had always subconsciously known. He had always known that his feelings for Sherlpick were far too fond for that of a casual ‘mate’. Sure, he made John want to bash his brains out with a baseball bat, but he secretly didn’t want it any other way. It was almost as if he was a teenage boy again, mooning over some girl with a big arse and a wide grin. Funnily enough, most of his secondary school girlfriends seemed to conform to that description. Figures. He hailed a cab with shaking limbs, his legs weighing him down like lead. The address was mumbled with reluctance, yet certainty all at the same time.

  John was toying with the scenario in his mind, the idea of his love being unrequited made him feel physically ill. He didn’t know what Sherlock’s longstanding reaction to it would be. Would he kick him out? Would he blatantly reject him? Would he bypass it completely? As he was in the midst of yet another crisis, he didn’t notice the taxi coming to a halt until the driver gave a gruff, “You getting out, or not?” John’s tip was far from generous as he slammed the taxi door behind him, ignoring the indecent expletives being yelled at him. The front door had never been so daunting before. Nonetheless, John had faced his father and Afghanistan, he could face this. So with squared shoulders and a tight fist, he ascended the staircase of 221B.

  Sherlock had been playing the violin upon his arrival, but when John’s presence was made known in the doorway, it came to a rather sudden halt. John looked conflicted, and that was being mild. His face seemed pained as he removed his jacket, and hung it on the rack. “John-“ Sherlock was interrupted with John’s hand thrown authoritatively in the air. “Shut up, Sherlock.” Sherlock shut up, his complacency surprising even himself. He discarded his bow and violin on the desk, staring down at John with unspoken curiousty, and maybe a tad of underlying concern.

  How long both of them had been standing there respectively, in complete pin-dropping silence, John didn’t know. Sherlock did, fifty-eight seconds. With what looked like a nod, to no one in particular, John sighed in resignation. No one said a word, as the room hardly needed additional tension. John grabbed the corners of his jumper, and pulled the material over his head in reverence, discarding it on the couch behind him. Well, Sherlock most certainly had not expected that. He watched on in shock, his body gone stark still as the military man shed his body of his button up. A white vest remained, the thick straps hiding the scar of a past trauma in the war. Their eyes locked, all of John’s layers (both metaphorically and figuratively) had been removed. He seemed uncertain, possibly even frightened. Sherlock opened his mouth to comment, to say anything. For once, his brain forbade him from doing so, as he did not have a single thing to say. Finally, John’s hands grasped firmly at the ends of his undershirt, and with a tug it was sent flying over his head. What Sherlock could see before him had his head whirling, a horrified gasp escaping his lips.

  John’s tanned skin was marred with marks, each and every single blemish varying in size and shape and colour. There were bumps and lines, all of them eliciting signs of a struggle. The sight made Sherlock feel ill, it made his body warm with white hot fury. Father, it had been John’s father. In the past, Sherlock’s mentions at John’s family had been deflected or completely bypassed, specifically at the mentions of a paternal figure, how he had never caught on to the implications of the defense mechanism baffled him.  _Stupid, stupid, stupid._ John’s body took on a slight tremble, contrasting with the severe and stoic expression plastered on his face. Sherlock was seldom uncertain, but this was one of the rare times where it overtook his actions with no alleviation. 

  “John.” His voice was low, the name only being spoken slightly above a whisper. Sherlock didn’t even notice that his feet were moving until he was planted in front of the man, eyes wild as he took in each and every single crevice of his body. “It was my Dad,” He mumbled, “I hardly need to tell you that, though.” His voice was wry, as he huffed out a humourless laugh. On his lumbar region lay the mark from the previous day, an angry looking wound that would no doubt join the collection of permanently tainted skin on John’s body. Sherlock was speechless, which was a fact he would brandish with terrifying submission at this very moment. Once again, his body moved without his consent, long and dexterous fingers outstretched towards a large and abstract scar on John’s left bicep. John barely concealed his flinch. An incomprehensible sound left John’s throat as warm hands touched his skin. “John,” He said again, his mind going back to the many moments in particular when he had told John that he, ‘loathed to repeat himself’.

  “I’m sorry.” The apology had Sherlock’s head snapping up from the bane of his concentration, a sliver of scar on John’s hip. His eyebrows furrowed in undisguised confusion. “You’re sorry?” His own voice sounded foreign to his ears as he deadpanned. John elaborated, “For being such a dick earlier, this wasn’t exactly something I was dying for you to see.” Sherlock scoffed, he rested a hand on John’s shoulder, finger just barely tracing the meticulous bullet wound scar. 

  Sherlock’s brain was a whirlwind, it was almost too much information to retain at once, all of his conspiracies, near certainties surrounding John’s incompetence and balking were eradicated. Breathtaking. He was breathtaking. As thoroughly inappropriate as it was, Sherlock relished in John’s admission. Perfectly imperfect, a paradox, a direct contradiction to everything Sherlock knew the man to be. It didn’t lesser his opinion of John, on the contrary, he was amazed at all John had gone through. His respect for the invalided soldier increased two-fold, his complexities were outstanding. Sherlock was hooked, and admittedly had been for a very long time.

  “It was hardly something I was going to judge you for, come now, you know me better than that.” Sherlock’s disapproval was clear as day, it would’ve been hilarious if not given the situation. John grumbled, giving barely a respone. If it were anyone else, anyone else at all, they most likely would’ve been running for the hills. Nobody that John had encountered in his romantic life had been too pleased at the prospect of going out with someone with so much baggage. This was different, so much more different. It was uncharted territory, the positively heartstopping way that Sherlock’s eyes were boring into his. They were both overwhelmingly conscious of every movement, every breath. Sherlock’s hands were still on his shoulder, something he was incredibly aware of. Their eyes interlocked again, an unspoken yet completely telepathic conversation unfolding. It was going to happen, John could feel it, Sherlock could feel it. Both heartbeats respectively increased, breathing becoming shallower and shallower. Time in itself is a construct, barely there, always there. Truly, nothing can genuinely happen in slow motion; but as Sherlock’s head moved downwards, and John’s head tilted upwards, arguing that fact would’ve been futile. “Sherlock.” A whisper, the warm breath brushing Sherlock’s, an unspoken promise. Their lips connected. It was too much, and not enough simulataneously.

  They pulled apart, only for a second which stretched out to be a millennium. Eyes not leaving each other’s, lips desperately reuniting with lips. Ragged breaths and desperate limbs led them to the couch, where Sherlock surprisingly ensured that they both were carefully settled down. The pent up frustration from months of dancing around each other was being converted into pure ecstasy. John’s hands grabbed a handful of the delightful curls, fuck, how much he had wanted to do that. Sherlock smelled of linen and musk and that ridiculously expensive shampoo and  _fuck._  It was disgustingly romantic, horribly cliché, but as they both pulled apart for the millionth time the golden words were admitted into the open simulataneously.

”I love you.”

  

**Author's Note:**

> Give me feedback as to what you want to happen next, all suggestions are really appreciated!


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